


Without A Paddle

by lamardeuse



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-22
Updated: 2010-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels like a dick in his May West, which he imagines makes him look like a puffy orange marshmallow with toothpicks sticking out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without A Paddle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for due South Flashfiction on Livejournal (canoe challenge).

 

Getting in the fuckin' boat is like trying to walk on Jell-o. Ray loses his fight to stay upright and sits down hard on his tailbone. He bites his lip as the pain shoots straight up his spine and spikes into his brain.

Greatness.

Last night they got into the tent, like they'd done every night on this godforsaken trip. Of course, Ray does not employ adjectives like "godforsaken" in front of Fraser, since after all this was Ray's idea in the first place, and Fraser is having more fun than a barrel of pigs in crap. He's been kind of down since coming back to Chicago--Ray still doesn't know why he didn't stay up in the Northwest Areas, flew in without warning after about a month up there alone--and Ray wants to give him a treat. So he borrows the tent and buys brand new camping stuff and asks Frase to accompany him on a trip to the wilds of Wisconsin.

"Don't want you gettin' soft, huh?"

Frase's eyes get faraway at that, like distant, stormy skies over the Rockies. "No. You're quite right. Thank you for your consideration, Ray."

Whatever. So here they are, and Ray realizes after about, oh, an hour in the woods, that A: he hasn't camped in about twenty years, B: camping is a lot more fun when you're seventeen than when you're thirty-seven, and C: what the FUCK is up with all the mosquitoes?

But after stubbing his toe for the fifty-third time on a rock/tree root/squirrel, he looks over at Fraser, who's got a big, wide grin on his upturned face, and he also realizes D: none of the above matters a damn. Because Fraser hasn't had that look on his face in what feels like forever.

So. Okay.

Last night. They get into the tent. What's this now, the third day of four? Fine. So Ray figures Fraser's going to put out the lamp and drop right off like he's been doing every night, while Ray lies there for two hours listening to the bugs whine around his head looking for a good place to land and start sucking him dry. Only he doesn't. Frase kills the kerosene lamp, but he rolls toward Ray instead of away this time.

And Ray remembers the last night of their adventure, when Fraser talked and talked and talked until Ray wanted to scream at him to get to the point, already, because he didn't want to talk, he didn't want to know, he didn't want to _feel, _and eventually Fraser must have caught the vibe because he said 'good night,' polite as always, and that was the end of it.

But this time, he gets right down to it, no Eskimo Joe to cover things up. "Ray, why did you ask me along on this trip?"

Ray's not sure what to do here, because he thinks he's already covered this topic. As much as he wants to cover it, anyway. "Uh, like I said, I kinda figured you could do with a reminder of home and nature and all that crap."

"Oh," Fraser says, quiet as anything.

"Why'd you come back to Chicago?" Ray asks, only it's not like a question so much as a rabbit-punch, quick, to distract the big son of a bitch who's trying to pound you into the mat.

Silence. In a few minutes Ray hears Fraser's soft snore, and rediscovers breathing.

"Ray. Ray. Ray."

Whoops. Flashback city there for a minute; Ray takes a sec to rejoin the present. Jell-o boat under him, spinal column twanging with pain, harsh sunlight glinting off the water and straight into his eyes. He feels like a dick in his May West, which he imagines makes him look like a puffy orange marshmallow with toothpicks sticking out. Fraser's life vest is perfectly proportioned and hugs his body like a--

_Christ. Don't even think it._

"Yeah. I'm here."

Fraser hands him a paddle. "Now, if you would be so good as to kneel in the bottom of the canoe."

"Excuse me?" Ray twists himself around to stare at Fraser.

"It's important to follow appropriate procedures."

"Why are there benches if being on my knees is 'appropriate'?"

Fraser ignores him, and Ray sighs and leans forward until his knees kiss the bottom of the boat. "Just like church," he mutters. "My mother never gave me a straight answer to that question either."

"Now, I'll just push off from the wharf--"

Ray grips the sides of the canoe, nearly losing the paddle in the process. _Okay, you knew there'd be moving involved--_

Shit, this is a lot of water. How deep is it here? It doesn't look deep, but that could be one a' those topical illusions--  
  
"If you'll just shift toward the right side of the canoe--good. Take your paddle and try the stroke we practiced on the dock. Ready?"

Ray grips his paddle straight up, the way Fraser showed him earlier. _J stroke. Make a J. Nice J._

"And--stroke!"

It takes Ray about a dozen times to get fully into the rhythm, but once he is the canoe is gliding, doesn't feel like moving at all, feels like he's flying, like they're flying together--

\--the car flying into the Lake they Call Michigan, and thinking as the rubber ducks go sailing past his head,_ if I survive this, nothing's ever gonna be the same--_

\--the wind whistling past him as he hurtles into Lake Michigan for the second goddamn time, this time without the convenient vehicle to cushion the blow, and thinking, _I can't do this any more, I can't keep waiting and hoping and praying I'll die first so I won't have to see it--_

\--gripping the wing of that fucking aircraft, watching his life flash before his eyes and thinking, _it's too late, it's too late, everything is always too late--_

"Ray. Ray. Ray."

"Yeah?"

"We can stop here for a moment."

They've made it all the way to the middle. Deep water, so deep he'd be drowned before he came to rest. Ray takes his paddle out of the water and watches the water drip off of it, into the lake.

"Don't turn around."

Every muscle in Ray's body seizes up and his heart would be lying on the bottom of the canoe if it wasn't for the fucking puffy orange life vest holding it in.

"I thought this would be easier out here. Your back would be turned. You can't run." Ray hears the smile. "Fewer mosquitoes."

Ray smiles, too, in spite of everything. "Yeah. That last one's a bonus."

"I love you." Fraser's voice is shaking, Ray's surprised the canoe doesn't come apart at the seams from the force of it. "That's why I came back."

"Yeah. I know." He lays the paddle down, flexes his legs a little to get the stiffness out. Takes a deep breath. "God, I missed you while you were gone, Frase. I missed--us. That's why I asked you here."

"Do you think you could want--"

"Yeah," he says again. "Because I have. I do."

The boat jiggles uncontrollably then, and Ray's stomach lurches. Fuck, they're going over, this is it--

And then strong arms wrap around him, skinny body and fat orange puffball, and everything goes calm again.

"It's all right," Fraser breathes against his ear. "We're not in danger."

Ray laughs and squeezes back. "Not any more we're not," he says, turning his head to cover Fraser's mouth with his own.  


**Author's Note:**

> First published July 2003.


End file.
